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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30045117">nothing harder to go through with (than a vanishing act)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteriscus/pseuds/asteriscus'>asteriscus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drabble, Gen, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, Neurodivergent Jaskier | Dandelion, author gratuitously projects on our good bard in this chili's tonight, vent fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:02:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>579</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30045117</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteriscus/pseuds/asteriscus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Julian.”</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>The pained expression on his mother’s face imprinted itself on his heart like a crude firebrand. He screwed his eyes shut to keep the tears from flowing and tucked his hands underneath himself, like he'd been told to before and did not need to be told again.</i></p>
<p>Or: The fundamentally mildly traumatising nature of growing up neurodivergent and constantly wondering what the fuck is wrong with you.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>nothing harder to go through with (than a vanishing act)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier, to his mother’s endless despair and his father’s resigned disappointment, spent the entirety of his youth drawn to that which other noble children were taught to avoid and abhor, a habit which followed him through his intermittent career in academia and into adulthood. Non-conformity, as it were, did not phase or disturb him in the slightest – in fact, it called to him inexplicably, like a siren song of respite from the enduring boredom of his misfit youth. Should you ask the Viscountess de Lettenhove, the heir was an unruly child. Mischievous and temperamental, although loquacious, and with a penchant for getting himself into trouble. If you asked Jaskier himself, he would tell you the truth, which was–</p>
<p>He was just–...he was <i>trying</i>, okay? He was trying his best.</p>
<p>Once, at a banquet hosted at the de Lettenhove estate, he was told, very sternly, that he were to sit still and speak as little as possible, just until the formalities were over with, no further. As far as looks went, Jaskier was a sweet child, with bright blue eyes and cherubic ringlets that his mother spent many an evening facilitating by tying his hair into tight little up-dos that pulled and pinched as he tried to fall asleep. The night before this banquet was no different, and the pinch of the elaborate hairdo would jolt him awake every hour or so through the night. He must have been seven, maybe eight years old, then. Eager to please his mother and appease his father. Even so – less than an hour into the banquet, before the food was even on the tables, he’d dropped his cutlery to the floor three whole times.</p>
<p>“Julian,” the Viscountess would whisper to him, a stern frown on her face, but no real malice, “please, just a little longer. Just until the formalities are done with.”</p>
<p>Formalities were boring. They were so fucking boring, and everyone talked about bygone politics and stories from before Jaskier was born and other topics he didn’t understand and had no interest in hearing about. Not a soul was ever interested in him beyond reluctant pleasantries, and he tried to listen, he really did, but his mind would twist and leap without end, through sounds and smells and secret stories of his own creation, built steadily over time during formal occasions much like this. He only realised he’d been playing with the fork again when it clattered to the floor.</p>
<p>“Julian.”</p>
<p>The pained expression on his mother’s face imprinted itself on his heart like a crude firebrand. He screwed his eyes shut to keep the tears from flowing and tucked his hands underneath himself, like he'd been told to before and did not need to be told again. With his hands pressed tight enough under the full weight of his body that he would have pins and needles after, he started absently biting at the insides of his cheeks, which already bore the beginnings of what would later become a gnarled line of scar tissue.</p>
<p>The music started, a meager consolation, but a consolation nonetheless. He was to not move his hands an inch, lest he made even more of a mess. Instead, he started tapping his feet to the rhythm of the upbeat jig that flowed through the room as though it were the air itself.</p>
<p>Half an hour later his potatoes were cold, and his stomach remained empty, but he hadn’t missed a single beat. Not even one.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, hey, it just took me a full year to work up the courage to post this. Time isn't real right now anyway. Thanks for reading.</p>
<p>The title is from Rain in Soho by The Mountain Goats, and if you're wondering why baby Jaskier was described as "cherubic", I lifted his looks from the books, where our bard is a curly-haired blonde. It just happened that way.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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